


whatever you see i swallow immediately

by eugenides (newamsterdam)



Series: A Fractured Mirror [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: Alternate Reality, Canon Compliant, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/eugenides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day he becomes a captain, Jim finds a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whatever you see i swallow immediately

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains depictions of torture. Although there is nothing sexual about said violence, it does result in paralysis and might be triggering. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> The title of this story comes from Sylvia Plath's poem, "Mirror."

He’s not supposed to be here.

It’s the first thing Jim thinks as the doors of the captain’s quarters slide open to admit him. He steps inside and shakes his head, unable to dislodge the feeling of wrongness that’s descended upon him. On the bridge, it has been just the opposite—adrenaline and endorphins and who knows what else, rolling through him and making him feel like he was right where he belonged. But now the _Narada_ is only the memory of its atoms inside a wormhole, and their crisis is over. Engineering and Medical now have to take on the brunt of the work, and with _Enterprise_ through its crisis, Jim finds himself once again superfluous. 

“You require rest,” Spock had told him primly as he gave Jim Pike’s access codes. “Until we return to Earth, you are the captain of this vessel. And if you are unable to perform your duties because you refuse to comply with standard shift protocols, it will do nothing for the crew’s already diminishing morale.” 

Jim decided that the commander was right after it took him five minutes to swim through his convoluted words. He was left with the uncomfortable feeling that Bones would’ve said something similar, had he been on the bridge. (Though he would’ve used perhaps a third of the words to do so, and forty percent of them would have been curses.) But the _Enterprise_ ’s new CMO has been in surgery for eight hours, trying to save the ship’s proper captain. Jim hasn’t seen him since just after he and Spock returned from the _Narada_.

He takes a few steps further into the room and sighs. Though designated as the captain’s quarters, the room isn’t much larger than any other officer’s. There’s a half-wall that separates the inner room from a casual receiving area, and Jim brushes past it to sit awkwardly at the foot of the bed. 

Pike hasn’t had time to move in yet; the ship wasn’t due out into space until after graduation. So there are no personal effects on the walls or on the countertops. The sheets are still stale and clean, unwrinkled until Jim had sat down. He’s still covered in blood and only wearing half a uniform; no one can really decide what the proper protocol is. And though nothing had ever felt better to Jim than sitting in that chair, he’s not sure if he’s ready for three stripes and Command Gold.

_I told you, it was made for me._

The voice comes out of nowhere, distant but clear. Jim jolts upright and looks around, but he’s still completely alone. The doors had closed behind him, and no one without access can enter them, now. After a moment, he sighs. He could’ve just imagined it. He doesn’t even want to consider what else the stress of the past few hours might have done to him, body and mind.

_But I can handle it. There’s nothing I can’t do._

This time he jumps to his feet, because there’s no mistaking it. That’s _his_ voice. It’s a little harder, a little colder than he’s ever heard himself. But the inflections are his, the barest hints of the Midwest lurking behind his vowels and g’s. 

Jim slowly walks through the entirety of the small cabin, sticking close to the walls and examining every square foot. He even ducks into the refresher, and finds nothing. But his heart is beating as fast as it had been when he’d come face-to-face with his father’s killer.

_I’m going to kill the bastard._

“Computer,” Jim calls out, managing to keep the tremor from his voice, “List occupants of cabin 001-A.”

“One inhabitant. Kirk, James Tiberius,” the computer answers in placid tones. “Rank: Cadet. Currently operating under field promotion to Captain, pending—”

“Enough,” Jim says, and the voice abruptly cuts off. He’s finished his circumnavigation of the room, and ended up next to the bed again. And that’s when he sees it.

A small shape peaks out from behind the headboard, no more than a few inches across. Jim approaches it slowly, runs his hands down it—wood, maybe even actually organic. It looks like the corner of the old picture frames his Grandpa Tiberius kept on the mantle. Instinctively, he gets a better grip and pulls.

A large mirror slides out from behind the headboard. It’s about two-feet across, in the shape of a slightly-tilted diamond. It’s framed all around by three inches of heavy, dark wood. 

Jim looks into the mirror curiously. Pike has never struck him as the type of officer to spend time primping, and there’s a wall worth of mirror in the refresher. So now Jim leans down over the silvery surface, curious.

He sees himself. James T. Kirk, standing with his arms crossed. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his chest is a mess of small hairline cuts that shine an angry red in the low light. His throat is black-and-blue with deep bruises, the impression of long fingers. He’s standing in the captain’s quarters, but the walls are painted dark and the bed is draped with sensuous sheets that gather and dip and ripple like molten metal. This Jim wears a dagger strapped to his thigh and a phaser at his hip. He stands over the bed, obscuring most of it from view.

“What the fuck,” Jim whispers harshly, taking a step back. He blinks, and looks around. The quarters look just as they had a moment ago—pale walls, Spartan sheets. Jim glances down at his ruined shirt, runs a hand over his own sore throat. He takes a deep breath like he can gulp down the air, then looks back at the mirror.

The Jim who looks more like a pirate than an officer has lifted the dagger from its sheath and is examining it closely. 

“Remember when you gave this to me, old man?” he asks lightly. His voice is too bright, false in its enthusiasm. It’s the same voice Jim’s been hearing echoing in his head—his own, but calculated. His own, but stripped of Jim’s sincerity and integrity and… humanity. 

Other Jim steps around the bed, examining the dagger and occasionally licking his lips. “You really fucked up, didn’t you? Got yourself captured by a god damn Romulan, and couldn’t even keep yourself in one piece. What was the big plan, huh? I’m _curious_.”

Something ghosts down Jim’s spine, and he shivers. He remembers standing with Captain Pike in the turbolift, the older man saying “You’ll have to come back and get me,” and Jim taking those words to heart. Now, he swallows convulsively and looks back at the mirror, because he knows who this other version of himself is speaking to.

Christopher Pike lies on the bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He’s wearing, instead of a Command Gold shirt, a vest that’s tinted faintly green. But it’s soaked through in more than one place with blood, and the captain’s face and arms are a mess of wounds. He’s lying on his back, and suddenly Jim’s glad he can’t see the man’s spine, the back of his neck.

Jim’s double laughs, throwing back his head and displaying rows of perfect teeth. His eyes are bright and slightly unfocused, and suddenly he reaches out and thrusts the dagger into Pike’s chest, just below his heart. The captain spasms, his entire body jerking up. His mouth twists into a scream, but there’s no sound.

Jim jerks himself away from the mirror and claps a hand over his mouth to silence his own reaction. His heart is racing, and he finds himself shaking his head like he can toss out the images. 

“What the hell is this,” he says, whispering for whose benefit, he’s not sure. After a moment of sitting back, breathing heavily, he’s drawn back to the mirror like a bystander watching a shuttle crash. 

Other Jim is standing over Pike’s body, tracing patterns along the older man’s arms and face in his own blood. This Jim’s lips are pulled upwards in an ugly sneer, but when he speaks it’s in calm and conversational tones.

“Bet you’re wishing you’d left me in Iowa, aren’t you? Just the unknown heir to a family best known for dying for the Empire. I’ve gotta tell you, Chris—dragging my ass to the Fleet was probably the stupidest decision you’ve ever made.” As though to punctuate the point, he reaches for the dagger’s hilt, still embedded in Pike’s chest. He traces over it gently with his fingers, then grips it tightly and twists.

Pike’s body convulses again, his limbs stiff and his face a mask of pain. The Jim standing over him laughs like a delighted child.

“But like I was saying—I was made for this. It was made for me. It’s just your shit luck that finds you caught in the middle.” Jim pulls the dagger out abruptly, and what little clean space was left on Pike’s vest is soon seeped with blood. 

This Jim twirls the dagger between his fingers, cleans the blade by running it across the palms of Pike’s hands. 

“You know, I’ve got to say, I like this role reversal a lot. It feels good, being the one in charge. And after all your little tests and games, I’d say I learned the job pretty well, wouldn’t you?”

Pirate Jim nods to himself, answering his own question. A universe away, Jim grips the edges of the mirror and bites down on his lip, willing the entire thing to stop. But his double just rises to his feet, addresses an invisible crowd with a flourished bow.

“I’d planned to drag this out,” he says idly. “Give as good as I’d gotten, you know? But I’ve got a ship to run and honestly? You’re boring me, Chris. So I’m going to make this quick.”

He lifts the dagger in one hand, reaches for his phaser with the other. “I’d give you the choice, but you’re not up to talking right now, are you?”

He lifts the phaser and trains it at Pike’s feet, then his dick, then his chest. Finally he lifts it so that the shot will fire straight between the man’s eyes.

Next to the mirror, Jim can feel his double’s index finger start to clench. His mind is awash in the images, the sounds, and the horrors he’s watching, but somehow he knows he can’t just sit here. So just before his double can pull the trigger, Jim slams his fist against the mirror and screams “ _No!_ ”

The mirror barely registers the blow. The images continue, uninterrupted, the glassy surface as smooth and unbroken as ever. But the other Jim jolts, looks around wildly as though looking for the source of the noise. Jim knows he’s been heard.

“Don’t kill Pike,” he whispers. “Don’t do it.”

The other Jim shakes his head, drops the phaser to the ground. The smile falls from his lips, and suddenly he seems years younger. Under fresh blood and bruises, he’s a mess of old scars. There’s something haunted in his eyes, beneath the twisted viciousness. 

He sits down on the bed next to Pike’s prone form. “Hey, Chris,” he says, too gently. “I’ve had an idea.”

Please, Jim thinks furiously, whatever this is, whatever kind of test…

“You’ll probably get a promotion, if you make it back to Earth. And I could really use an admiral in my pocket, with the plans I’ve got.”

Yes, anything, Jim thinks. Anything that won’t end with a slit throat or phaser burns through a man’s head.

“So, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to let you live. And you are going to remember my mercy, for the rest of whatever kind of fucking joke of a life you’ll have left.”

It should be impossible, with the way he’s losing blood and the damage to his spine. But Pike’s lips pull into a ragged grin, just as feral as the one Jim’s double was sporting earlier.

Other Jim rises to his feet, slams his fist against the comm unit on the wall. “Kirk to Medical,” he barks.

“ _What is it, Jim?_ ” The voice that echoes through the room sounds tired, irritated, and… familiar. 

_Bones._

“You’ve got a patient here, McCoy. Get the hell up here and do your job.” 

Jim can almost see Bones rolling his eyes when the same voice sighs. “ _Be right there._ ”

The line goes dead and the other Jim walks in a small circle. 

Jim knows exactly how long it takes to get from Medical to the captain’s quarters. Bones will be at the room within minutes. But Jim’s had enough. It’s one thing to see Pike prone and vulnerable but still grinning like a sociopath, or even himself turned into this twisted and broken man. He’s not sure when or how he’ll get over seeing any of this, but he can rise above that much, at least.

But he doesn’t want to, knows he can’t deal with, whatever this world’s version of his best friend is. He can’t see that bleeding heart and hidden affection turned on its head to something darker. He can’t.

Using both his hands, Jim shoves the mirror back into place. Immediately, the world seems lighter. He waits for a long moment, then two. But he can’t hear the other Jim’s voice anymore.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a knock at the door.

“Enter,” he says, finding his voice. The doors slide open and Bones steps in, dressed in rumpled scrubs. There are bags under his eyes and his hair is a mess, but he’s real and whole. Jim lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Hey,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

Bones lifts a critical brow. “What am I doing here? You _called_ me, Jim.”

Jim shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”

Bones grunts, takes three steps into the room and presses a hand to Jim’s forehead. “You feeling alright, kid? You never came back for a post-mission exam. I was in surgery, but Geoff or someone could’ve seen you—”

“Bones,” Jim says, ducking away. “I’m fine.” 

Bones harrumphs, apparently unsatisfied with this explanation. 

“How’s Pike?” Jim asks quietly, after a moment.

His friend lets out a sigh and sits down heavily at the foot of the bed. He runs both hands through his hair. “Took me hours to dig that slug outta him, Jim. And even being careful to avoid damaging his spine even more…” 

“Is he okay?” Jim demands, his voice pitching. 

Bones nods, slowly. “He’s out of danger. He’ll live. But…”

“But what, Bones?”

“I don’t know if he’ll walk again,” Bones says, looking up at Jim through tired hazel eyes. Jim knows Bones better than anyone else on this ship; he knows that the doctor takes each case he can’t cure to perfection as a personal failure. Jim shakes his head and sits down next to Bones, throwing an arm over his shoulders.

“You saved him,” Jim says positively. 

“You and Spock did that.” Bones shakes his head. “It was touch and go, for a while. There was a moment there, right at the end, where I could feel—I could’ve sworn that he was dying on me, Jim.” He chuckles darkly. “But he pulled through.”

Jim purses his lips and tries to ignore the tremor that goes through him. “You did good, Bones,” he says. 

Bones shifts away from him, eyes him critically. “And what about you, _Captain_? Rumor has it you were sent up here to sleep. But you look like shit, kid.”

Jim smiles apologetically. “I was getting there.”

“Yeah?” Bones doesn’t seem convinced. “How ‘bout you get there now? Go stick your head under the sonics and clear off your face. Then get back here and get to sleep.”

There’s no good way of arguing with Bones when he gets like that, so Jim follows orders. By the time he makes it back to the bedroom, Bones has found him an extra undershirt. He strips out of his dirty clothes and sits on the edge of the bed in his boxers and clean shirt. 

Bones pulls back the covers and ushers Jim into bed.

“You okay, Jim?” he asks quietly, tucking Jim in. The exhaustion has hit him too hard for him to argue.

“Sure, Bones,” he says around a yawn. “I’m just fine.”

The other man just nods, ordering the lights down to ten percent. When he starts to move away from the bed, Jim reaches out to grab his hand.

“You’re off-duty, right?” Jim asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Then stay.”

Bones doesn’t say anything else, just shucks off his scrubs and climbs in next to Jim. The bed isn’t meant for two people, but it’s better than the Starfleet Academy might-as-well-be-cots they’ve been crashing on for the better part of three years. Bones takes a moment to settle, and then Jim drapes an arm over his chest.

He’s asleep before he can even hear Bones begin to snore.

The next morning Jim dresses for the bridge and Bones heads back to Medical. Standing alone in the room for just a minute, Jim glances back at the mirror. It’s even more obscured than it was, wooden frame not even visible from behind the headboard. He could’ve sworn he hadn’t pushed it in so far, but then he had been basically walking dead last night.

He shakes his head, and prepares to lead his ship back home.


End file.
